The Little Things
by Commodore Norrington
Summary: It's the little things he notices most in the days and weeks following...well, following.  Post 10x6


**Author's Notes:** Well, I've been working through my feelings about the finale for a week now, and it seems the way I do this is to have Harry work through his! I have a longer piece of what I'm calling "catharfic" in the works, along quite similar lines as this, but this one sprang into my head almost fully formed this morning and begged to be written to include some little things that wouldn't fit into the other one. So here it is! Enjoy. :)

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><p>It's the little things he notices most in the days and weeks following…well, following.<p>

The milk, or rather the lack thereof. It's fully two days before he manages to drag himself out of his bed, and he finds what he is craving most in the world is a cup of hot, milky tea. (_"How very English."_) It is only when he is staring at his very bare fridge that he remembers pouring the milk out five days ago – God, was it only days? It felt like decades, eons, another lifetime. It _was_ another lifetime.

His own breathing. Why has he never realized what a fragile miracle lungs are? It astounds him every time his chest rises and falls, effortlessly, unconsciously. How quickly, how easily that effortlessness could be disrupted. He tries disrupting his own, sometimes, willing himself to just stop breathing, slip into oblivion. But his old battle-scarred body is too used to survival, too stubborn to die.

A scuff on his left shoe. He doesn't remember how it got there – probably somewhere in the midst of his rescue by Erin and Dimitri. It bothers him, stupidly. He pulls out the shoeshine kit and begins the ritual he has practiced since his army days. Wipe, polish, brush, buff, wipe. The familiar, repetitive motions are soothing, and when he finishes the left, he unthinkingly picks up the right and continues. By the end of the day, all five pair of his shoes gleam mirror-bright.

Two small bloodstains on his right cuff. He ignores the shirt for as long as he can, crumpled where it had fallen with the rest of his clothes when he finally mustered the energy to shower. When he can overlook it no longer, he agonizes over what to do with it. To have it cleaned seems some sort of betrayal – to chuck it in the bin even more so – but to keep it would be impossible, insane. He finally takes all the clothes from that day to the backyard and touches a match to them. He's finished burying things.

The burn of scotch in his throat. He knows exactly what it sounds like to say that the whisky has become his only friend, and in truth he's not sure that would be entirely inaccurate. The sad fact is, there is no one left. Not that he'd ever been one to confide in others (_"Neither of us are what you would call…emotionally forthright"_), but what he wouldn't give to have Ros around to have drinks with. Or Adam – Adam would have understood what he's going through. He wonders briefly if he will go down the same path as Adam, slowly losing his hold on reality until finally going out in a blaze of glory. He's getting maudlin in his old age.

The tiny chip in his miniature Statue of Liberty. It had been a birthday gift, several years ago. At least, he assumed it was meant for his birthday. It had shown up a month after the date, in a battered box wrapped in brown paper with no return address. The note had simply read, "Saw this in a misplaced tourist shop and couldn't resist. To encourage your spirit of Atlanticism." He had treasured it, memorized its every contour – until he lost track of it when CO-19 exploded into his living room and arrested him. He had not gone looking for it when he got home; with her back in the country and so much between them, it was too painful a memory. It was only now, with too much time on his hands and no motivation to go out, that he found the figurine fallen behind his bookshelf. He was annoyed to find the chip on the torch, suddenly reminded of another seemingly innocuous keepsake. (_"I thought it might be some sort of declaration of love…All I got was a pat on the bum and this tacky souvenir."_) Part of him, the part that had been a spy for thirty years, whispered to him to smash it, find out what secrets were hidden inside. But another part, a smaller part, that part that perhaps after all these years was still human, stayed his hand. Ruth was not Hugo Prince, sending messages from beyond the grave. Sometimes a cigar was just a cigar, after all. And sometimes a miniature Statue of Liberty was just a simple declaration of love.


End file.
